


Aftershocks

by Alliterative_Albatross



Series: Better Love [2]
Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: (they don't know that yet), Aftermath of Violence, Awkward Conversations, Bombing, Ears and Javi are both bad at feelings, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Injury Recovery, Light Angst, No Smut, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, both of them are traumatized, long overdue conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 14:34:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28993767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alliterative_Albatross/pseuds/Alliterative_Albatross
Summary: ‘Your heart leaps what you see. Javier Peña is slumped over your bedside, his leather jacket balled up beneath his cheek, his forehead burrowed into your leg.’That bomb fucked you up a little more than you thought.
Relationships: Javier Peña & Reader, Javier Peña/Reader, Javier Peña/You
Series: Better Love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2073882
Comments: 102
Kudos: 114





	1. Chapter 1

A deep, throbbing ache in your back drags you back to the land of the living.

Ugh. 

You rub the crust from your eyes and wiggle your toes with the awkward effort that comes from heavy sleep. It’s late afternoon, the sun sinking low in the sky, falling in gentle patches over the crumpled comforter. Reality comes back to you in slow, muzzy chunks. 

You’re lying in Peña’s bed. He’d ridden you hard, then tucked you in afterward, snuggled comfortably beside you while you’d drifted off. 

The lazy smile dies on your lips as you remember just why Javier Peña had felt the need to throw you against the wall and fuck you like there was no tomorrow.

Your apartment. A blazing fireball. Smoke and ash and rubble. Emilio’s broken body. 

You choke back a sob. 

Javi.

Your chest throbs as you remember how he’d looked at you, eyes shining and desperate. 

_“I thought I’d lost you.”_

How he’d held you close, tucking you gently under his chin as if you were the most precious thing in the world. Wild sex in the hallway, gentle sex in his bed. Snuggling up together afterward. His soft confession, _“I’m all in Ears, if you’ll have me.”_

Your brain spins dizzily in an attempt to process it all. Despite all of the pain, fear, drama, and uncertainty of the past 12 hours, you can’t help feeling a profound sense of relief. Sure, you’ve lost everything you’ve ever owned, but at least you have Javi. 

That thought still boggles your mind. 

You roll over, kicking your feet to untangle them from the sheets. Javi’s side of the bed is long cold. Sighing, you haul yourself up on your elbow, surprised when you have to catch your breath to do so. 

God, you’re more sore than you thought you’d be. 

Your heart races as you stand, and you press your hand to your breast bone, feeling a little woozy. Gray spots swim in your vision, and you blink hard, forcing them away. You hadn’t realized you’d stood up so fast.

Slowly, you patter naked into the hallway, following the sound of Javi’s voice. He’s in the kitchen with his back turned to you, speaking lowly into the telephone. He’s still shirtless. 

You crack a grin at the memory. 

Now that you’re standing up, you’re starting to feel a little more stable. Thoughts are still fuzzy and distant, and your pulse thrums skittish in your ears, but at least you’re not going to pass out. Your chest feels weird, though, like your lungs have been scraped raw, and taking a deep breath sets something throbbing deep in your back. Your head aches like a bitch, too. 

Fuck Pablo Escobar and his fucking bombs. 

You snatch Javi’s green shirt off the kitchen counter, still lying half-folded where you’d dropped it this morning. Javi raises his brows at you, and you shoot him a wink as you slip into it. He’s still on the phone, talking to Messina, you think, but his eyes follow you darkly as you make your way to his bathroom in search of some pain medicine.

Climbing onto the toilet to peruse through Javi’s bathroom cabinet feels like more effort than it really ought to be. Again, your heart speeds, and you double over, suddenly panting for air. 

A minute or so later, Javi finds you sitting on the toilet lid with your head in your hands. 

“Hey,” he says, pausing as he notices your position. He drops to his knees in front of you, taking your hands in his. “What’s wrong?” His voice is laced with concern. 

You look up at him. He’s all dark eyes and somber expression, watching you warily with a deeply furrowed brow. “Just a little dizzy,” you admit, hating to see him worry over you. “I was looking for a tylenol. My back is killing me.”

Javi blinks, as if the thought of keeping medicine in a medicine cabinet has never occurred to him. 

“I can find you something,” he says, and somehow, you just know that means he’ll be sneaking across the landing to borrow from Connie’s stash. “But baby, are you sure I don’t need to take you to the hospital? You look a little pale.”

“I’m sure, Javi,” you answer firmly. The thought of getting dressed and leaving the apartment is absolutely abhorrent right now - you are still bone weary. You decide to offer him a compromise. “If it really bothers you, I’ll see somebody tomorrow after work.” 

Javi shakes his head. “You’re not going in tomorrow, babe,” he says slowly. “I already talked to Stechner.” There’s a little bit of hesitation in his tone, like he’s wary of how you’ll react. “Once word got around about the bomb, everybody was looking for you. I didn’t mean to butt in, but I really didn’t want to wake you, either.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck, almost apologetically.

In a different situation, you think you might be annoyed by his interference. But Javi is staring at you with those solemn, worried eyes, one errant curl falling across his brow, and you find that any frustration you feel is buried deep beneath exhaustion and maybe even a little gratitude. “Guess I’ll let it slide,” you tell him, cracking a small smile. “This time.”

He answers you with a tiny breath of relief and a quirk of his lips. “Good.” One long thumb massages your knuckles absently. “He’s put you on leave for the rest of the week. Says get some rest and maybe some therapy, and he’ll see you on Monday to talk logistics.”

You snort. “Asshole.”

Javi’s expression is a little darker as he agrees. “So,” he says, leaning back on his heels to pin you with an intense stare. “Doctor tomorrow?”

“Doctor tomorrow,” you promise, allowing him to pull you to your feet. “Tylenol now.”

“Bossy,” he complains, reaching up to stroke your cheek like he just can’t help touching you at every opportunity.

“Assertive,” you’re quick to correct, swallowing back a shiver. All of this soft, sweet caressing is very new.

Javi grins, a gentle, fond expression that crinkles his eyes and makes him look years younger. “Have I mentioned how good you look in my shirt?” he murmurs, meeting your lips for a slow, deep kiss that steals your breath. One hand roams up to gently cup your breast. 

“You don’t have to,” you answer smugly, catching that wandering hand in a firm grip. Your heart is racing again, but for all of the wrong reasons. “Now, go raid Murphy’s medicine cabinet for me, please.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” he laughs, shaking his head at the fact that you know him so well.

That woozy feeling redoubles just as soon as Javi shuts the door behind him. You bite your lip, counting back the hours since you’ve had anything to drink besides coffee. Even that had been a long time ago. Probably you’re just dehydrated.

You make your way to the kitchen, feeling numb and detached as you shuffle through the cabinets. Javi has a startling lack of normal drink wear, but you manage to find a nice set of crystal tumblers lurking above the sink. 

Typical.

Again, climbing requires an alarming amount of effort, and something uncoils painfully in your chest as you reach over your head for a glass. You flinch, and three of the tumblers go flying, shattering on the floor with a horrendous crash.

Startled and off-balanced, you stumble to your hands and knees, heedless of the glass shards that are digging into your bare skin. Your vision is graying at the edges again, and you can’t fucking breathe. 

“What the fuck?” Javi’s voice is hard as he slams open the front door. “Babe?”

“Sorry,” you wheeze with the very last of the air that’s left in your lungs. Panic sets in, your body responding to the acute lack of oxygen in the only way it knows how. “I was -”

Speaking sets you coughing, and suddenly, you’re coughing so hard that you can’t stop, great, wrenching spasms that send pain racketing through your entire body.

Javi drops the bottle of pills he’s holding. They rattle against the floor. “Fucking hell, Ears,” he grits between clenched teeth, reaching down to haul you to his chest. You know he doesn’t mean it. “You are not fine.”

You press your fingers to your lips, one last rasping cough ripping its way out of your throat. When you pull them away, they are covered in tiny spots of blood.

Javi freezes as he sees it. “Jesus Christ.” 

Your teeth are chattering, your entire body shaking. “I’m -”

“Goddammit, if you tell me you’re fine one more fucking time, Ears,” Javi growls, allowing the threat to trail off.

You shake your head. “I’m not,” you manage. Everything hurts, and words are difficult right now. Your throat is raw, and you still don’t have enough air. “I’m sorry. I was, but now I’m not.”

“Come on,” Javi’s voice is terse, worried. You have the foresight to grab his sweats from the counter before he sweeps you off your feet. “We’re going to the hospital. Now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, promise, promise, this is going to turn into fluff. Please don’t kill me!
> 
> Originally, Aftershocks was going to be a huge one-shot, but nah. I thought I’d try smaller chapters for once (read: chaotic albatross cannot plan shit to save her life, yolo).


	2. Chapter 2

You’re escorted beyond the heavy double doors of the emergency department in a hurry. It probably has a lot to do with Javi busting into the waiting area with you in his arms, flashing his DEA badge and barking out orders in irate Spanish. 

Honestly, you wish he wouldn’t make such a scene. Sitting still in the car had allowed you to catch your breath a little. You feel like shit, sure, but you’re pretty sure you aren’t actively dying.

Try telling him that, though.

The triage room is little more than a curtain masking a dimly lit corner. You’re answering what questions you can in halting Spanish, but Javi can see that you’re overwhelmed. 

_“Ella habla ingles.”_ His tone earns him a dirty look, but the nurse nods, placing an oxygen probe on your finger and frowning up at the monitor. Both of you follow her gaze, noticing that the number reads 87. 

“The doctor will see you soon,” she says carefully. Her English is heavily accented, and suddenly, you’re grateful beyond words that you have Javi here to translate. “Here. You’ll wear this.” She winds the oxygen tubing beneath your chin and around your ears. The oxygen is dry, burning your nose and making your face twitch in annoyance, but you can’t deny that you feel better with it on.

The nurse leaves you then, pulling the curtain closed behind her. Javi continues to stare at the monitor with his arms folded across his chest as the number on the screen climbs to 89, then to 92, the soft tone of the blips rising in pitch with each subtle improvement.

He’s thinking again, you can tell. 

“Javi?” You reach for his hand, tugging at his fingers. Instinctively, you know that leaving him alone to stew right now cannot be a good thing.

He glances down at you, all dark, glittering eyes and terse expression, and worry clinches in your gut. “You okay?”

Javi snorts. “Really, Ears.” You can just see him fighting the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s a hell of a question, coming from you.”

You decide to shoot for levity. “I’m great, thanks for asking.”

That earns you a pathetic, lopsided lip twitch. You count it as a win anyway.

The doctor never shows. Javi grumbles and broods. A little while later, somebody comes with a wheelchair to whisk you away for an x-ray, and no matter how much blustering and badge-flashing and protesting he does, Javi is told firmly to stay put. 

He’s pacing agitatedly in the hallway when return. Apparently, it had felt like an eternity for him. 

In reality, you’d been gone less than twenty minutes.

It seems that your x-ray has earned you some attention, because things start happening a little faster now. People are in and out, one nurse bustling in to wordlessly draw an entire fistful of little color coded tubes of your blood, another working on IV access in your opposite arm. You take it all stoically, caught between watching in fascination as the nurse tapes the catheter in place with practiced efficiency and wondering why all of this can’t just happen in one stick. 

A little while later, the same nurse returns with a bag of fluid. _“Seca,”_ she informs you as she stretches to hang it on the hook in the wall. 

“She says you’re dehydrated,” Javi translates. His face is a stone wall, the subtle clench of his jaw the only hint of the emotion that churns beneath. You can just imagine him kicking himself for not making you eat or drink. 

You bite back a shiver. The saline is cold in your arm.

They move you to a real room not long after that. It’s only marginally bigger than your corner in the emergency department, crammed with two rickey, uncomfortable beds separated by another dingy curtain. Thankfully, you don’t have a roommate for the moment.

You let Javi handle the paperwork as you change out of his sweats and into the itchy, open-backed gown that you’ve been provided with. Even with the oxygen, moving around still requires that you pause to catch your breath, and you’re grateful for the opportunity to sit when you’re done, even if the hospital bed you’re on is squeaky and uncomfortable.

Once the documents are signed and the nurses are gone, silence settles thickly between you. Javi is standing with his fingers fisted into his hips, glaring daggers at the clock on the wall. He hasn’t spoken in a long time.

Again, you feel that burning need to pull him out of his head. “Not really set up for visitors, is it?” you ask wryly. It’s a stupid, pointless thing to say, but you’re just trying to fill the void.

Javi glances around the room, raising his brows at what he observes. There’s no chair and no free space, nowhere for him to sit. Sighing deeply, he yanks back the curtain that divides the room and eases carefully onto the bed opposite of you, leaning forward with his arms folded on his knees.

You grit your teeth. Really, you wouldn’t have minded him settling down on your bed, but the more time you spend with Javi, the more you’re starting to realize that he withdraws when he’s feeling wrong-footed. As annoying as it is, the distance he’s putting between you is just par for the course, and it’s just not worth addressing right now.

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly, pinning you with a sharp, assessing stare.

“Better,” you answer automatically, forcing some cheerfulness into your tone. Honestly, you’re far more worried about him than you are about you. 

Javi raises a skeptical brow, clearly doubting you.

“No, really!” 

Your protest makes him shake his head in dark amusement. “What am I gonna do with you, Ears?” he wonders aloud.

You’re ready to supply several very detailed answers to that question, all of them interrupted as your doctor finally breezes into the room. 

“About fucking time,” Javi mutters under his breath as he rises to his feet.

 _“Hola, hola_. I’m Dr. Perez.” Dr. Perez says, actually managing to sound a tiny bit apologetic. “Forgive the delay, _por favor_. I know it must seem that emergencies are the most non-emergent situation in the hospital, but, I promise you, we are working hard behind the scenes.”

You decide immediately that you like Dr. Perez. He’s not a big man, compact and clean cut, with just the faintest dusting of silver at his temples and a warm, genuine smile. 

Javi must be thinking along similar lines, because he comes to stand just at the edge of your shoulder, looming dark and foreboding at your side as Dr. Perez approaches your bedside. 

Oh, now you’ll stick close, you think fondly, trying to find a little amusement in Javi’s behavior. Everything about this situation is entirely new, totally incongruous with the cool, suave Javier Peña that you thought you’d known, and a malicious, possessive part of your brain is just eating up the implications.

“I understand you were involved in the bombing in downtown Bogotá, correct?” Dr. Perez’s grip is firm and cool as he shakes your hand. 

“Yes, that’s correct.” You’re acutely aware of Javi standing stiffly beside you, watching your every move.

“Most unfortunate,” Perez shakes his head in a show of sympathy, and you manage to believe him. “And the breathing problems, they began later, no?”

“Yes,” you answer, surprised that he would guess with such accuracy. “I was okay afterward. Maybe a little bit sore. But not hurt.”

 _“Ella ha estado tosiendo sangre,”_ Javi interjects quickly. You’re not sure what he’s saying, but Dr. Perez’s eyes flicker in his direction, a swift, meaningful look passing between them. 

_“Veo.”_ Dr. Perez says smoothly. He frowns down at you. “And how for were you from the blast zone?”

You think back, willing yourself to relive the memory of the morning in clinical detail. “I was crossing the street,” you say slowly. “Headed home.” You do some quick mental math in your head, analyzing the width of Circular against the image of Emilio, waving. You’d been close enough to shout a greeting. “Forty feet. Maybe a little less.”

Beside you, Javi sucks in a sharp breath. 

Perez purses his lips. _“Sí, eso lo haría_.” He crosses the room, flicking a switch to illuminate a bright white panel built into the wall that you hadn’t noticed before. He shuffles through your chart, pulling out a dark film and pinning it to the light. 

It’s your chest x-ray. You can clearly see the curve of your ribs, stark white against the darker background of your lungs. In the middle of the film lies the dusky outline of what you assume is your heart. To the lower left, a patch of hazy, white blur mars the image. 

“This is the problem.” Perez points to the blur. _“Pulmones magullados._ Your lungs are bruised, see? This is common in blast zone survivors. The change in air pressure when the bomb ignites causes an injury to the lung tissue. You are bleeding just a little bit internally.”

You can damn near feel Javi gritting his teeth at that.

“But I felt fine,” you protest weakly, looking assentingly at the blob on the x-ray. It’s a pretty good size.

 _“Sí,_ you were fine.” Perez is nodding along with you, like he’d expected the argument. “That’s normal with this type of injury. You felt good immediately afterward because the bruise was new, the bleeding slight. But the bruise has gotten bigger, and you have gotten worse.” He indicates the oxygen that you are wearing with a grim nod. “You are a very lucky, _mi amiga,_ to have walked away from that. _Muy afortunada._ Had you been closer…” Perez trails off, shaking his head somberly. “It does not bear thinking.”

He claps his hands, startling you away from the grisly images stirring in your mind. “There is good news, though!” Perez gestures toward the x-ray as a whole, circling over it with his index finger. “I see no rib fractures, nothing collapsed. Your breathing might get worse before it gets better, but it will get better. We will keep you under close watch until then.”

“Keep me?”

 _“Sí,_ you will be here.” Perez pins you with a no-nonsense stare, as if to curtail any protests before they come. “There’s another matter. You have a small concussion as well. To this area, here.” He taps the back of his own head with his hand. “From falling down, yes?”

You nod. The area he’s pointing to is right where your head hurts most, where you’d fallen backward after the blast. “Yes. It did knock me off my feet.” Apparently a with a little more force than you’d initially assumed.

Perez hums. “We will monitor that as well. You do not take blood thinners?”

“No, sir. No medications.”

 _“Bueno.”_ Dr. Perez seems genuinely pleased by this _._ “You’ve made my job very easy.” He gathers the film and shuffles it back into your chart, flopping it shut with a flourish. “Rest for you, _Orejas._ Time and sleep will do the best healing.”

 _“Orejas?”_ you can’t help but ask. It’s the name that Emilio had used for you, but you’re shocked that Perez knows it. 

Perez smiles. “I listen to my nurses. That is what they call you.”

“How much time?” Javi interrupts before you can respond. You’d nearly forgotten about him, as quiet as he’s been. 

Perez turns to address him for the first time. “It depends largely on her body. The concussion is small, and won’t require anything in the way of treatment. Her lungs, though…” Perez frowns down at the closed chart with a furrowed brow. “The contusion is still developing. A few days, a week, perhaps? I can say more tomorrow.” He turns back to you, sighing in sympathy. “I’m afraid you’re in for a stay, _mi amiga.”_

Well, fuck.

With that, Perez disappears just as quickly as he’d arrived, soft, quick footsteps echoing down the hallway, and silence falls once again over the room.

Javi doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He’s standing very still, arms folded tightly across his chest with his thumbs digging into his armpits. The expression on his face is downright chilling. 

Your blood turns to ice.

“What the fuck, Ears?” he says very slowly, enunciating each syllable with deadly precision.

You glance up, suddenly hesitant to speak. The little movement must be enough to spur him on, though, because Javi fucking explodes. 

“Forty fucking feet!” he bites out, clawing angrily at his hair. He paces the tiny room, whirling as he runs out of space and pointing an accusing finger at you. “You told me you were across the street, Ears, not _crossing_ it. There’s a big fucking difference.”

You blink at him, recalling the conversation you’d had in the embassy parking lot. 

Shit, he’s right.

“Why the hell did you lie to me?” There’s a subtle warble in his tone, a flicker of devastation in his eyes that’s quickly masked. 

Discomfort that has nothing to do with your injured lungs twinges in your chest. “I don’t know,” you answer miserably. You hadn’t thought of it as lying. At the time, you’d been overwhelmed by the situation and thoroughly confused by Javi’s erratic behavior, just desperate to get home and sleep off the worst morning of your life. “I didn’t want to upset you, I guess.” 

Javi laughs sarcastically. “Well, you’ve done a fucking fantastic job of that, haven’t you?” He throws his hands in the air, like he’s had it _up to here_ with your shit. “Coughing up blood all over my kitchen floor. Christ, I should have _known.”_

Okay, now he’s being a little dramatic - the only blood you’d coughed up had been into your fingers, after all, but the protest is lost on you as you look him in the face. Javi’s eyes are deeply shadowed, his expression pained, his hair standing wildly from where he’s run his fingers through it. 

He looks thoroughly exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, dropping your gaze to the floor.

Javi huffs and looks away, clearly not ready to accept any apologies from you.

You don’t blame him. Throughout this entire screwed up relationship, you’ve done an absolutely piss poor job of putting yourself in Javi’s shoes, and it’s coming back to bite you in the ass.

You deserve his irritation, and more.

Javi’s pager beeps, the shrill sound of it slicing through the tension. He snatches it roughly off of his belt, frowning down at the display with squinted eyes.

You glance up at the clock on the wall. It’s pretty late, but given the day Javi’s had, it’s not outrageous to assume that somebody would need to be in touch with him at this hour.

“I’ve got to take this,” Javi says tonelessly, hardly glancing up at you. If there’s any regret there, it’s buried very deeply. “I’ll see you later, Ears.”

He’s gone before you can get a word in edgewise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a surprise day off, so enjoy the second installment of Aftershocks much sooner than I had anticipated. Woot woot!
> 
> I speak one language poorly, and I’ve never written extensively for a character who is not a primary English speaker (I’m not counting Javi here). Any critiques or corrections to my Spanish are very welcomed!
> 
> Up next: a look at things from Javi’s POV.
> 
> Spanish translations: 
> 
> She speaks English.   
> Dry  
> She’s been coughing up blood.  
> I see.   
> Yeah, that’ll do it.  
> ears


	3. Chapter 3

The lights are dimmed in your room when Javier returns. You’re huddled in a tight ball on your side with your back to the door, sleeping.

You look tiny, all curled up and swaddled in scratchy hospital blankets. Javier can just see the edges of your hair peeking from beneath a pile of pillows. He wonders how you managed to convince your nurses to gather so many.

A rush of affection rises in him. You are a merciless pillow thief - you’ve always liked to sleep buried, burrowed down like an animal in a den. 

Javier sighs deeply against the memory. It’s early morning, and your doctor had specifically told you to rest. He won’t wake you.

Guilt claws in his throat as he carefully situates the little plastic chair he’d nabbed from the waiting area next to your bedside. 

Last night had been awful. Hearing you tell your doctor that you’d been forty feet from your apartment when it had exploded, well, Javier had damn near lost his mind. 

_He’s forced to park blocks away, the road packed with emergency vehicles. Something about the squall of sirens and the swarm of first responders milling around the scene sends a cold shard of dread lancing through his core, and before he makes the conscious decision to do so, Javier is running, dodging police cars and bystanders and fire hoses and a pack of volunteers unloading a stretcher into the street._

_It’s like a fucking war zone._

_Javier’s seen plenty of bomb sites before - it’s a foregone conclusion, living in Colombia for four years, but this is different._

_This is your home._

_Ash and shattered glass crunch beneath his boots. The fires have been put out, but smoke still rises thick and dark from the husk of the building. Rubble coats the street for nearly a block, hunks of concrete and twisted steel struts looming broken and ominous from the haze, like something from a film. Around him, sirens are blaring and people are shouting. The smell is terrible. To his left, a pair of emergency workers are loading a black body bag onto a stretcher._

_It’s not you._

_Javier takes a long look, fighting back desperately against the horror and nausea that are rising in him. Nobody at the office has seen you, nobody has heard from you._

_Javier is distracted from that grim thought by a movement at the corner of his eye._

_It’s one of your father’s playing cards, fluttering down from your caved-in ceiling._

Later, a quick conversation with Martinez had confirmed it - CNP had uncovered evidence of twenty pounds of C4 planted in Emilio’s drug store. Escobar’s explosive of choice, enough of it to level an entire building. 

If you’d left work a minute earlier, had been just a few feet closer, Javier could have lost you. It was a matter of seconds, of footsteps. 

At the time, Javier’d wondered if he had. 

_“¿Donde esta ella?¿Donde esta ella?” Javier asks over and over again, darting between firemen and officers, flashing his badge to anybody who will look and ducking his head into the open backs of ambulances. “La mujer que vive aqui. ¿La has visto?”_

_But nobody has._

_A distant, rational part of Javier’s hindbrain knows that he should be relieved by that, but it is overwhelmed by fear. There’s an awful lot of rubble here, plenty enough to hide a body. Javier just manages to stop himself short of clawing through it - what’s left of the upper floor is swaying ominously overhead, and he’s not that stupid._

_Overwhelmed, he grips his hair, takes several paces back. His emotions are a swirling maelstrom, punctuated by blaring sirens and the acrid scent of burning metal, and suddenly, he can’t fucking think. Desperate for something to do, Javier jogs back to the car, taking solace in the simplicity of putting one foot in front of the other._

_Distance is a mercy. The air is a little clearer here, the crowds dispersed. The Bronco is parked haphazardly in center of the street, the driver side door still wide open. Javier leans his head heavily against its frame, offhandedly marveling at the fact that it hadn’t been stolen. He’d even left the keys in the ignition._

_He takes three deep breaths, in and out, in and out, in and out. Genuine panic is starting to claw its way up his throat, stealing his breath and short circuiting his brain, and he can’t have that, not right now._

_His eyes land on the satellite phone nestled in the console, and he wonders abruptly if anybody has tried your pager._

_It’s a long shot, he knows. What Javier really ought to be doing is calling the local hospitals to check if you’ve been admitted, but he knows how dedicated you are to your job. If you’re awake - if you’re alive - you will have that fucking pager on you. You never take it off._

_He punches your number with trembling fingers and paces the street, holding the phone in a white knuckle grip while he counts the seconds. He’ll give you five minutes, and then he’s driving to the hospital himself._

_His phone rings in three._

_“Peña.”_

_Your voice answers him, and Javier’s hardly aware of the words you’re saying over the profound rush of relief. His pulse rushes a sharp staccato in his ears, and he leans heavily against the hood of the car, steadying himself before his legs buckle beneath him._

_“Where are you?” It’s the only thing he can think._

_“Umm, I’m actually at your place…”_

_Another wave of intense relief, no less strong, but Javier’s already braced for it this time._

_“Stay there,” he tells you fervently, already slamming the car door behind him._

_She’s fine, he reminds himself over and over during the ten minute drive home. She’s fine, she’s okay, nothing happened. Tranquilo, Javier, tranquilo. Don’t do anything stupid. She’s fine._

_Except, you weren’t fine._

You flop over, the rickety little bed protesting pitifully as you move, and Javier notices for the first time that you’re in a full face mask instead of the nasal cannula that you’d been wearing when he’d left you. He glances up at the monitor. The number on the screen reads 93, the same as it had when he’d stormed out to deal with Berna. Obviously, you’re requiring more oxygen to stay stable now.

You’d deteriorated since he’d been gone. 

Javier grinds his teeth hard enough to set his jaw aching. The doctor had said you might get worse before you get better, but seeing your face swallowed up by that ill-fitting, uncomfortable looking mask is enough to set shame roiling in Javier’s gut. He should have been here with you.

Not that he hadn’t kept himself busy. Between conversations with Berna, Messina, Murphy, Stechner, and Messina again, Javier had just about talked until his throat was raw. 

What he’d discovered through all of it was a mixed bag.

According to Steve, Verdugo had yet to cough up anything useful. It’s still a little soon to be counting chickens, but Javier is doubtful about whether Martinez and his guys can pry anything of value from him. Pablo’s goons tend to be the closed-lipped type. It’s one of the few advantages to this new arrangement with Los Pepes - they’re much more effective at soliciting useful information from the _sicarios_. 

Javier tries not to think too hard about that, though. 

Earlier in the afternoon, he’d supplied Messina with a tip that there may be a connection between the drug store below you apartment and Los Pepes. Messina hadn’t questioned his source; she’d been thinking along similar lines. She’d confirmed Javier’s suspicions in a phone call just minutes later - Emilio’s drug store is part of a chain owned and operated by none other than the Rodriguez brothers, the kingpins of the Cali cartel. 

Of course, Javier suspected this - not the bit about the drug store, that had been an unpleasant surprise. But to the average DEA agent, the fact that Cali cartel is the teeth behind the vigilante group currently terrorizing Medellín should be fairly obvious. It’s not a difficult leap to make, if you’re a critical thinker. Most DEA agents are. 

But Javier Peña is far more than the average critically thinking DEA agent. He’s got the proof in his pocket, and that proof’s name is Don Berna. 

And that was another long conversation Javier’d had last night. Berna had been fit to be tied, muttering darkly that Escobar had overextended his reach this time. If Javier’d had any doubts about Berna’s dual role with the Moncados and Cali, tonight’s conversation had cinched it. 

Berna didn’t have much to add in the way of intel. To his knowledge, the drug store below your apartment had been selected at random. Emilio Delgado was extremely unfortunate, it seemed. Javier hadn’t mentioned you to Don Berna, and to Javier’s profound relief, Don Berna did not bring up any other potential targets, either.

It all adds up to two things: First, Pablo Escobar has uncovered the link between Los Pepes and Cali. Second, it was just pure, dumb luck that you’d been caught in the crossfire. 

And that hadn’t sat well with Javier. Sharing information with Los Pepes in the interest of bringing down Escobar is one thing. Discovering that sharing information with Los Pepes is essentially aiding the Cali cartel in their own terf war is quite another. Innocent people had died today. 

Hell, _you_ could have died today. And the implication that Javier could have played a role in your death, however minuscule, however indirect, is enough to set his gut roiling.

He’s going to have to pick his next moves very carefully.

With that grim thought, Javier’d gone back to the apartment to catch just a few hour’s fitful sleep, knowing that he won’t get away with another day of skirting work with vague excuses. He’d spent three miserable hours tossing and turning in a bed that suddenly felt too large for just one person, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling for half an hour before his alarm rang. 

Now, the early morning sun filters dimly through the dingy hospital window, and Javier is feeling the effects of days worth of too much stress and too little sleep. He’s bleary and exhausted, his brain muddling on drunken autopilot, his emotions skittering on a knife’s edge. 

If he could just fix things with you, it would make all the difference. 

Javier glances at his watch. 0620. He’s expected at headquarters in a little under an hour. Even if you were to wake now, it’s not near enough time for him to say all that he needs to say.

And god, what can he say? Frustration rises in him. He has no reasons to offer for his outburst, no excuse that could possibly justify walking out on you like that. 

Fuck, you deserve better. 

He’s known this for a long time. It’s probably half the reason he’d hung back for as long as he did, hedging around his feelings like a skittish colt hedges the pasture fence. 

The other problem was a lot simpler. 

Javier Peña was just afraid. 

He’d gotten over that, though. The threat of losing you was a sobering wake-up call. Trivial little details like fear of emotional intimacy and rejection tend pale in the face of a fucking terrorist attack.

And that’s another thing. Javi’s chest clenches at the memory. You’re so strong. It’s one of the first things that had drawn him to you, and you’d proved it tenfold yesterday, standing in his hallway in his t-shirt with your arms crossed nonchalantly across your chest, staring him down like his presence was just a mild kink in your day. Javier hadn’t had a clue that you’d just walked away from that explosion.

With that comes more guilt. Even in the midst of that horrific revelation at headquarters, Javier still hadn’t realized the full implications. How close you’d been to certain death. You’d just been so calm, opening your arms to him as he’d slammed into you with the force of a freight train, allowing him to bury all of his fear and desperation and profound relief between your thighs as he’d railed you against the wall. 

And all while you were bleeding out into your fucking lungs.

It’s enough for Javier to take another assessing look at your sleeping form. He’s always prided himself on being observant, on picking up every little nuance while giving nothing away, but you’re a mystery to him. There’s something about you that disarms him, throws him off his game. Javier hadn’t had a clue that you’d been downplaying your injuries, just like he hadn’t had a clue that you’d been at that bomb sight until Steve had told him. 

He wonders what else he might be missing when it comes to you.

Javier resolves to pay better attention in the future. He’s got your number now, knows how deeply you bury any vulnerabilities. It’s a quirk that catches him somewhere between admiration and frustration. A primal, possessive part of him had reawakened with a vengeance sometime in the last few hours. He respects you for the fierce, independent woman you are, but at the same time, there’s this aching, burning need rising in him to protect and provide, and a deeply buried part of his brain despairs at the thought of you being so self-sufficient, so reckless. 

Javier rises to his feet, feeling suddenly like he’s drowning. He’s helpless right now, and he hates it. There’s nothing he can do for you. He can’t fix your lungs. He can’t erase the horror of the past twenty four hours. Fuck, he can’t even wake you up and apologize for being a complete jackass - well, he supposes he technically could, but that in itself would be an asshole move, so he opts against it for now. 

He can’t bring back your apartment, can’t do anything about the fact that you’ve lost literally every possession you own in the wake of Pablo Escobar’s histrionic terrorism tantrum…

The memory of your father’s playing cards fluttering in the smoke-filled breeze plays over in Javier’s mind.

Maybe there is something he can do for you. 

You’re going to need things, practical things, a place to stay and clothes on your back when you get out of here. It’s not much, it’s not near enough to make up for all you’ve lost or the way he’s treated you, but at least it’s something. Javier will stop at nothing to make your life a little bit easier when you’re discharged from the hospital, and this, he can do. 

Decision made, he rises, dropping the gentlest whisper of a kiss on your temple. You stir a bit at his touch, furrowing your brow against the itch of his mustache in a way that’s very, very cute. It draws a smile from him. 

“I know I can’t fix it, baby,” he whispers softly into the shell of your ear. One hand comes up to rest lightly on your shoulder. You roll into his touch, sighing a little, and Javier aches to climb into bed with you and pull you close. But there’s no time. “But I’m gonna try.”

Javier leaves the hospital with a glint in his eye. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord y'all, writing Javier Peña is a challenge. I hope I did him justice!
> 
> And oooph, okay, we learn some big things here. Two small canon deviations, but they are important to note - first, Javi only started working with Los Pepes during that month that he and Ears were on the outs. I know I didn't have him come out and say that, but it’s heavily implied. Two, in this AU, Berna is a little more involved with the Cali cartel than he is in the show. Just go with it. 
> 
> Spanish translations:
> 
> Where is she? Where is she?  
> The woman who lives here. Have you seen her?


	4. Chapter 4

Being a patient in a Colombian hospital is not fun. 

You wake up later than you usually do, feeling groggy and sluggish. You think it might have something to do with the pain medicine you’d received last night - whatever it was had knocked you on your ass, and you’d slept like a dead thing throughout the entire night.

It’s not long before your brain boots back online, though, and you spend the rest of the morning replaying last night’s conversation with Javi over and over in your mind.

Well, it wasn’t exactly much of a conversation, was it?

Upon some reflection, you decide that you can’t be irritated with him. Yeah, you’d been overwhelmed and exhausted yesterday, but there’s no denying that you’d downplayed just how close you’d been to your apartment when it had exploded, and how cruddy you’d felt afterward. Putting yourself in his shoes, you decide that you’d be pretty upset about it, too.

You glance at the clock, urging the minutes to tick by a little faster, wondering how long it will be before you see him again. 

If he comes back at all.

Somebody brings you a soggy turkey sandwich for lunch, and you chew through it woodenly, deciding that it would be pretty gross even if you were hungry. You’re not. 

There’s no TV in your room, and you find yourself actually wishing that you had a roommate - somebody to stare at, at least, if not to talk to. When your nurse swings back by to take your tray from you, you catch her attention, thinking hard to remember the appropriate word in Spanish.

 _“Libro?”_ you ask hopefully.

She blinks at you.

 _“Por favor?”_ you tack on quickly. It never hurts to be polite.

 _“Estas aburrida.”_ She cracks a grin _. “Buena seńal. Veré lo que puedo encontrar.”_

You assume that means that she’s taken pity on you, because she leaves without another word.

* * *

“Oh, wow,” you say, taking the battered graphic novel from your nurse’s hands. You stare down at it in fascination.

 _“Azafatas!”_ the title screams in bright yellow block print. You have no idea what that means, but you can’t mistake the target audience. The bare chested woman on the front is at least a 32 DD, scantily clad from the waist down, holding a knife over her head in a way that displays her considerable assets for all to see and oogle.

 _“Publicacion para adultos,”_ you read the subtitle aloud, glancing up at your nurse, who is watching you expressionlessly. “Is this what you guys do on your lunch breaks?” 

Her eyes sparkle, and you wonder if she understands more than she’s letting on.

You decide that beggars can’t be choosers. _“Gracias,”_ you say, flipping through the book with open fascination. The art is pretty impressive. Maybe you can brush up on your bedroom Spanish. 

You wonder with a pang what Javi would think of that.

* * *

You’re roused from your nap by a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“Javi?” you mumble, squinting into the light.

It’s Dr. Perez. 

_“Lo siento,”_ he says softly. “Forgive me for startling you.” His gaze drifts down to the novel that rests on on the blanket beside you. “Good reading?”

“The illustrations are awesome,” you answer with a grin. “The plot could use some work, though.”

Perez chuckles a bit at that. “A critic,” he muses as you struggle to sit up, fighting against the blanket that you’re tangled in. You’re a little out of breath by the time you’ve managed it.

Dr. Perez frowns at you. “How are you feeling?”

“Umm…” you take a couple of deep breaths. Your heart races like it’s going to burst through your ribcage. “Not great.”

Perez nods toward the monitor. _“Sí,_ your oxygen levels have dropped some.” 

“Perfect.”

“This is normal, _mi amiga,_ remember? All part of the process.” He reaches behind you to adjust the flowmeter on the wall, and the oxygen sputters in your nose. You twitch a little, and Perez grimaces. “It’s uncomfortable?”

“Itchy,” you answer, rolling your lips to adjust the position of the prongs. “Dry.”

Perez nods in sympathy. “You should really be wearing the mask when you’re sleeping,” he reminds you gently. “It’s much harder to breathe lying down than it is sitting up, and your lungs need the extra help right now.”

“Sorry,” you say, not feeling very sorry at all. The mask sucks. “I just drifted off.”

“Next time, then,” Perez says. His tone is firm, but not unkind. 

“Yes, sir.” You fight to bite back a sigh. You really do like Perez. You don’t want to give him a hard time.

“Bueno.” Perez smiles as he jots something down in your chart. “We’ll check another x-ray tomorrow. I expect things to have stabilized by then.”

You nod.

 _“Animo, amiga!_ I know it seems like a setback, but you’re doing well, all things considered.” Perez tucks your chart under his arm. “Can I get you anything?” 

“No, gracias.” 

There’s nothing you want that Dr. Perez can give.

* * *

It’s almost dinner time when your nurse comes back. _“¿Tienes dolor ahora?”_ she asks, motioning to your head.

You recognize _dolor,_ at least. _“Porquito,”_ you answer, setting aside your book and hoping you got that right. You think it might be slang.

Wordlessly, she offers you a little paper cup with two white pills, the same as you’d had last night. 

Lights out, you think wryly as you tip the cup back. 

She helps you swap your nasal cannula out for the face mask that Perez wants you to sleep in, then leaves you be, flipping off the lights on her way out of the room. 

You snuggle into the blankets, staring wistfully into the hallway and wondering when you’ll see Javi again.

* * *

You blink yourself awake. It’s dark again, the room lights dimmed. A heavy weight rests on your right thigh. You shift, curling your toes to force some blood back in them, and rise up on your elbows.

Your heart leaps what you see. Javi is slumped over your bedside, his leather jacket balled up beneath his cheek, his forehead burrowed into your leg.

Emotion swells in your throat at the sight of him, and you force yourself to stay very, very still. It’s not often that you catch him asleep, especially not curled up on you like this, and you find yourself wanting to savor the moment. 

Javi shifts and blinks, one hand automatically reaching toward yours. “Hey,” he rasps, voice thick from sleep.

“You came back,” you answer without thinking. You’d told yourself that you weren’t worried, that Javi’d just been busy with work, but now, seeing him here, his hand warm and massive as he braids your fingers together, you’re surprised at the amount of relief that swamps you.

Javi sits up, his expression crumpling at your words. “Of course I did, baby,” he’s quick to reassure you. 

You take him in, not caring one bit that you’re staring. The right side of his hair is squashed flat against his head, the rest impressively wild - you wonder what he’s been doing at work all day for it to stand up like that. He’s got little pocked impression of his jacket zipper trailing down his cheek. He’s staring at you like you hung the moon. 

“I’m glad you did,” you finally manage. Your mouth is suddenly dry, your heart pounding erratically. 

Javi scoots his chair a little closer, resting his opposite hand on your hip as he does. “I was here this morning, too,” he says softly, looking at you with an earnest, imploring expression, as if he’s begging you to believe him. “You were sleeping.”

“Oh.” The thought of Javi checking in on you sets something warm and pleasant tingling in your belly. Or maybe that’s just the little circles his thumb is working into your hip. “Yeah, they gave me some pain medicine,” you explain, shaking away the suggestive thoughts that are stirring in you. “Knocked me smooth out.”

Javi’s brow furrows. “Are you hurting now?”

“Nah, I feel fine,” you answer, noticing the way he relaxes a little at your words. He must believe you. “Much better, actually.” You reach up to yank at the oxygen tubing behind your bed, knocking the probe off of your finger as you do. Above you, the monitor beeps a warning.

“Fuck,” you hiss, swiping the mask off your face. Ridiculous thing. “Javi, will you?” you gesture behind you, toward the flow meter on the wall.

Javi’s frowning at you. “I’m pretty sure you don’t need to be messing with that, babe.”

“It’s fine, I did it all day today.” You’ve grabbed the nasal cannula from the bedside table, are already winding it around your ears. “Saves my nurses the trouble.”

Javi is still watching you skeptically.

“Seriously, Javi, Perez says I only need the mask when I’m sleeping,” you explain smoothly. You pin him with a coy expression. “Besides, I can’t kiss you if I’m wearing it, now can I?” You spin the damned thing by its tubing for emphasis. You might hate the prongs up your nose, but you hate the mask a whole lot more. 

Javi rolls his eyes at you, even as he’s moving to hook your tubing into the wall. “You’re gonna get me kicked out of here,” he grumbles, fiddling with the dial that controls the flow. He glances up, catching your eye. “Good?”

You twitch your nose. “Turn it down a little,” you suggest. It feels like a fucking tornado is forcing its way up your skull.

“Ears.”

“Babe, you’re drying out my brain,” you whine, climbing so that you’re facing backward on the bed. Christ, he’s got the little ball floating all the way at the top. No wonder. “I think it goes on 3.” 

“Jesus,” Javi mutters, twisting the dial. The tornado subsides significantly. “Happy?”

You glance back at the little ball. Javi’s left it on 4.

You decide you can live with that. Javi’s concern is sweet, as long as it doesn’t give you a fucking nosebleed. “Almost.” You raise you lips in clear expectation. 

Javi doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He leans over your bed, taking your face in both hands and kissing you slowly, sweetly. 

You find that you can’t deepen the kiss as much as you’d like. All of your breath has left you, and you have to pull back far sooner than you’re ready to, panting a little from exertion.

Javi’s still cradling your face in his hands, worry clear in his eyes. “Okay?”

“Just don’t have the lung capacity that I used to,” you gasp. 

Javi’s staring at you like he’s torn between amusement and self-flagellation. It’s not a good look for him. You’re reminded quickly of how upset he’d been last night, how long and empty your day had been without him, and suddenly, every inch of space between you feels like an insurmountable void. 

You pull back, scooting to the very far edge of the bed. “Come here,” you implore him, patting the stiff plastic mattress for emphasis. 

There’s no way that he can miss your intent. 

“You aren’t serious,” Javi grouses, tilting his head like he’s wondering if the bed is even capable of holding your combined weight. 

“I absolutely am.”

“It’s too small,” he counters quickly. 

“Please, Javi.” You reach for his hand. You’re not usually one to beg, but hell, you’re feeling off-balanced and vulnerable, and you’ve spent all day alone wearing a scratchy gown, lying in a shitty bed and wondering when you’d see him again, and you just need a hug, dammit.

“Now I know you’re trying to get me kicked out of here,” Javi mutters, but there’s no bite in his tone. To your utter shock, he toes off his boots and crawls awkwardly over the side rail, pausing with each creak and pop of the frame beneath him.

By some miracle, the bed holds.

It’s a tight fit. You let Javi settle on his back, and you fold up at his side, laying more on top of him that beside him. As your head nestles into the crook of his neck and your left leg threads between his, and you decide that maybe tiny hospital beds are good for something. 

Javi wraps an arm around you, pulling you closer, exploiting the open back of your gown to palm at your bare skin. “Is this what you wanted?” His voice is warm, indulgent. 

“Definitely,” you say, feeling all of your tension bleeding away as he strokes his long fingers between the notches of your spine. 

“I’m sorry.” Javi’s voice is so whisper soft that it takes a moment to register. 

“Sorry?”

“Yeah.” Javi clears his throat a little, and you crane your neck to look him in the eye. His gaze is somewhere above you, to the left. “For last night.”

Guilt floods you. “Javi, I -”

“Shh,” he cuts you off with his thumb to your lips, but his expression is so gentle that it’s hard to be annoyed with him. “Don’t defend me, Ears.” He’s looking at you now, eyes dark and full of self loathing. “Please.”

You wait silently, hating every second.

“I shouldn’t have walked out on you like that.” Javi takes a deep breath, as if searching for the right words. “I’ve been thinking about it all day. It was stupid of me.”

You raise a brow, clearly asking to speak. Javi withdraws his finger from your lips with a soft sigh. 

“Javi, you had to go,” you say immediately. 

His jaw tightens, his eyes cutting away. “But not like that,” he grits between clenched teeth. You can tell he’s still angry with himself. 

You catch his cheek with you palm, force him to look at you. “I’m not mad at you,” you tell him gently. 

“You should be.” His expression is miserable.

You flop up onto one elbow, digging into his ribs a little as you do. He squirms, and the bed protests ominously at all the movement. 

“Don’t tell me how to feel, Peña,” you say fiercely, caught somewhere between amusement and frustration. “It’s such a man thing to do.” 

Javi grins a little at this, you being on your same old shit. “I’m trying to apologize,” he protests weakly.

“And I’m trying to accept,” you counter, maybe leaning a little more toward frustration now.

You stare at each other like that for a long time, Javi looking up at you like you’re some alien species that he just can’t figure out, you frowning down at him like he only has three functioning brain cells. 

Suddenly, the bubble of tension between you bursts, and you’re both laughing far harder that the situation really warrants. Javi pulls you to his chest, humming a little in the back of his throat, and you allow yourself to be folded into him, his fingers carding through your hair as your laughter fades to giggles.

Javier sighs deeply. It’s a good sigh, a relieved sigh. 

You glance up at him. “God, we’re terrible at this, aren’t we?”

The wry grin you get in return is lopsided and boyish. “We really fucking are.” Javi’s arms tighten around you for a quick hug, that same hand snaking back between the folds of your hospital gown to rub at your back.

“I’m sorry, too.”

“Ears,” he groans.

“Hey, I listened to you!” you protest sharply.

“Hardly.” He’s teasing. 

You press your finger to firmly to his lips, exaggeratedly echoing his gesture from earlier. The glint in Javi’s eye suggests that he’s tempted to nip it, but he manages to hold himself back. You’re very proud of him for that. 

Now that you’ve got him where you want him, finding the right words is a challenge. All of your carefully rehearsed thoughts seem to escape you, and just find yourself just gazing at him, wondering how eyes so dark can be so expressive, wondering what the hell draws a man like Javier Peña to a woman like you, anyway.

Javier must notice you struggling, because the playful expression on his face fades into something thoughtful. The hand on your back stills, the solid weight of it a comfort against your skin.

“It’s hard for me.” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “Letting anybody in.”

Javi purses his lips in silent acknowledgment. He waits for you to continue. 

“I’ve been on my own for a long time, Javi,” you confess softly. “My whole life, really.”

Javi’s free hand comes up to your face, his thumb brushing an errant hair from your brow, and you bite back a shiver, marveling again at how he just can’t seem to keep himself from touching you. 

It’s very sweet, and it’s also very distracting.

You shake that thought away. Javi’s still paying rapt attention, his eyes still glued to you, questioning, waiting.

You sigh. “There were a lot of things I should have been honest about,” you admit haltingly. “Not just how close I was to the apartment. I wish…” You trail off. 

You wish so many things that you don’t even know where to begin.

Javi reaches up to clasp your hand that still rests on his mouth. “Do you know what I wish?” he asks softly, weaving his fingers through yours.

Grateful to give up the reins for a minute, you turn to face him. “What?”

“I wish I’d been honest with you about how I felt a long time ago.” Javi’s looking at you with somber eyes, and you think you can see right down to the core of him when he’s like this, all gentle and open. “I was just-” he swallows hard, lips quirking in a rueful smile. “Christ, baby, you just scare the shit out of me.”

“Yeah,” you answer hoarsely, suddenly breathless in a way that has nothing to do with your bruised lungs. As much as you’d suspected that to be the case, hearing Javi admit to it out loud throws you for a loop. His honesty speaks volumes. “I get that.”

You’d been afraid, too.

And listen,” Javi shifts so that your foreheads are nearly touching. “What you said a second ago, about letting people in…” He strokes your jaw with his thumb, long fingers reaching behind your neck to twine through your hair. “I’m really out of practice with that.” He huffs a small, self-depreciating laugh, shaking his head a little, as if he’s in awe of the words that are spilling out of him.

“We both are,” you say firmly, leaning in to his touch. The warmth of his skin feels so good after the itchiness of the hospital blankets.

Javi drops a gentle kiss on your nose. “But I’m going to try, Ears. I promise.” And just like yesterday, there’s an earnestness to his tone, a subtle timbre that suggests that the words he’s speaking hold much more value to him than their simple meaning suggests.

“We’ve both got some work to do,” you say, a distant part of your brain marveling at the conversation you’re having. If somebody had told you two days ago that you’d be snuggled up in a hospital bed talking about feelings with Javier Peña, you’d have thought they were laughing at a really funny joke.

You aren’t one bit sorry, though.

“Let’s work on it together.” Javi smiles at you, one of those mellow, genuine smiles that crinkles his eyes and shows off the dimple in his right cheek.

“Definitely,” you answer, moving in to smooth it away with your tongue.

Javi hisses at your touch, and you can just feel him fighting the urge to pin you to the mattress and prove with his body just how deeply his feelings for you run. 

Sighing, you pull away, cursing Pablo Escobar and his fucking bombs for the umpteenth time. 

“So,” Javi says, catching you with that shit-eating expression that you’ve become so familiar with. “Am I allowed to accept your apology now, Ears?”

You pretend to think on it for a moment. “Yeah. Please.”

“Good,” he says, capturing your lips with a gentle kiss. 

* * *

Javi stays for at least another hour. Desperate for news, you deflect conversation away from the hospital, peppering him with questions about the outside world. Javi patiently recounts his day to you, blow by blow. Apparently, it had been stressful. 

That explains the wild hair, at least. 

“Any news on the bomb?” you finally work up the courage to ask as he’s lacing up his boots. 

Javi’s expression instantly shutters. He glances away, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

You make note of his reaction. Apparently mentioning yesterday’s predicament is enough to spiral him into a bad mood, though this time, it’s not directed at you. 

Javi seems to sense your thought, though, because he meets your gaze, something softening around his eyes as he does. “What we’ve got right now isn’t much more than speculation,” he warns, twisting around so that he’s facing you, his knee hiked up near your thigh. “Looks like you were right, though. CNP is investigating the bombing in relation to Pablo Escobar.”

“Motherfucker,” you spit. “I knew it.”

Javi squeezes your leg reassuringly. 

“But why?” you ask, forcing your tone to stay level. It’s beyond frustrating, the not knowing. You’re missing pieces of the puzzle, and it’s driving you nuts. “Why a drug store in Bogotá? Why Emilio?”

Javi takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to say for sure,” he hedges. 

“Well, take a wild guess, then.”

Javi’s eyes cut to the open door. “Not here,” he hisses. 

You bite your lip in frustration. He’s right, of course. Anybody could overhear from the hallway. Still, the thought of him withholding intel irks you.

Javi notices. He always notices. “I promise you, baby, as soon as you get out of here, I’ll tell you everything I know.” He gathers both of your hands, squeezing them for emphasis. 

“You’ll tell me what you suspect,” you amend the the deal, not wanting to leave any room for interpretation. It was your apartment that went up in flames, after all.

Javi grins at that, caught. “That, too.”

“I’m holding you to that promise, Peña.”

That earns you an amused snort. “I don’t doubt that one bit.” Javi stands, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “You’ll be alright tonight?”

“Course,” you tell him through a yawn. For laying in bed all day, you’re surprisingly exhausted. “Better swap me back out before you go.” You hold up the dreaded mask for emphasis. 

Javi does it without complaint, not even bothering to hold back his grin as you struggle to get the damned thing to sit straight over your nose. 

“Goodnight, baby. I’ll drop by in the morning, okay?” He glances around your bare room. “Do you need me to bring you anything?”

You sit bolt upright in the bed. Christ, you’d almost forgotten to ask. “A book! Please, please Javi, bring me a book. I’m so fucking bored here I could cry.”

He laughs at your desperation, the absolute asshole. “I know,” he says, eyes shining. “Your nurses say you’ve been climbing the walls.”

You huff a little at the idea of Javi talking about you with the nurses while you’d slept. “Oh, did they?” you ask lightly. “You’ve been keeping tabs on me, then?”

He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “Somebody’s got to.” He leans against the side-rail, stumbling a little as your entire bed sways. “What kind of book?”

“Anything, Javi,” you tell him, as serious as you’ve ever been in your life. “Whatever you bring me, I’ll fucking love it. I swear.”

“Anything?” Javi counters with raised brows. It’s clearly a challenge. 

“Anything in English,” you clarify. You aren’t sure what all he’s got stashed away on that bookshelf by the door, but you wouldn’t put it past him to bring you something useless as a joke. “It won’t do me any good if I can’t actually read it.”

“You don’t want to brush up on your Spanish, _mi reina?_ ” 

“Who says I’m not?” you respond archly. You decide not to tell him about the erotica nestled beneath your pillow. Best to leave that as a surprise. 

“Okay,” he relents, shrugging into his jacket. You force your brain away from how broad he looks in leather. “One book, the subject of my choosing. I’ll have it for you tomorrow.” Javi winks. “Quiz on Friday.”

 _“Cabrón,”_ you shoot back, sticking out your tongue with all the dignity of a five year old.

Javi just laughs at you. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, for the love of god, if you’re ever hospitalized, please do your medical staff a big favor and don’t mess with the equipment. Do as I say, not as Ears does. She’s a nightmare of a patient. 
> 
> Also, feel free to critique my Spanish. Please.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Book? Please?  
> You’re bored. That’s a good sign. I’ll see what I can find.  
> Flight attendants!  
> Publication for adults.  
> I’m sorry.  
> Animo is similar to chin up, or cheer up. Not an exact translation.  
> Are you in pain now?  
> A little (again, not an exact translation)  
> My queen.


	5. Chapter 5

You bite back another breathy sigh, forcing your tapping foot to stay still.

In all, you’d spent six miserable days in the hospital. Last night, you’d been weaned completely off the oxygen, and by this morning, you’d been damn near ready to tear your hair out, pacing your room impatiently as Dr. Perez had given your final x-ray the all clear. That had happened around lunchtime, but then you’d been forced to wait even longer, eagerly counting each minute that had ticked by on the clock as you’d calculated the time until Javi finished his work.

He shows up a little later than you’d anticipated, looking windblown and anxious. “Sorry,” he says, sweeping you into a quick hug. He pulls away to look you over appreciatively - you’re back in his t-shirt and sweats, the only clothes you’d brought with you to the hospital. “I got a little hung up.”

“It’s all good.” You fight back a blush at his intense stare, feeling much more settled now that he’s with you. “But let’s get out of here. I’ve had just about all of this place that I can stand.”

Javi agrees wholeheartedly - he’d spent plenty of time just staring at these four walls, too.

Nobody speaks on the ride home. Javi seems perfectly at ease, one arm sloped casually over the steering wheel, the other hand rubbing little circles into your knuckles. 

But the silence is getting to you. Now that you’re officially on the mend, the burning question of ‘now what’ looms ominous in your brain. You know that Javi’s taking you back to his place, and that’s fine for the weekend, but eventually, you’re going to have to sort out another somewhere to stay. You think back, doing some calculating. It’s Thursday afternoon. Stechner wants you back at work on Monday. You’ll need to buy some clothes, at least. An errant curl falls into your face, and you cram it forcefully behind your ear. 

And a hairbrush. 

“You’re worrying,” Javi’s voice is kind as it shatters the silence. You glance up to find him looking at you from the corner of his eye. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

You thumb the well-worn pages of Javi’s book that rests in your lap. “Are you psychoanalyzing me?” you tease gently, fighting back a smile at at the memory.

_He hands you a book, Man and his Symbols, by Carl Jung. It appears well thumbed, a few pages annotated in the cramped, slanted script that you recognize as his. You even find an old movie ticket buried within part one - Approaching the Unconscious - the text faded, its edges worn soft with time._

_“Huh,” you say. It’s the last thing you’d ever expect from Javier Peña._

_“You promised you’d love it,” he cajoles, pointing a playful finger to your chest. “Anything, Javi, bring me anything!”_

_“I do,” you answer firmly, cradling the book carefully in your hands. He’s clearly spent a lot of time between its pages. It opens a whole new avenue of insight into the mind of the taciturn man standing in front of you, and you consider the book’s history, consider all of the things that Javi hasn’t told you. “I’m just surprised.” You wonder what other treasures are tucked away on that messy bookshelf in the front entryway._

_“Well, I don’t have much in the way of fiction,” Javi explains, suddenly seeming a little apologetic. “I’ll bring you something better this evening.”_

_You reach up to catch his hand. “Don’t.”_

“I’m observing you,” Javi corrects with a pointed look over his shades, pulling you out of your thoughts. His expression softens some, and he grips your hand reassuringly. “We’re going to be okay, babe. I promise.” 

Something pleasant curls in your belly at his use of the word ‘we.’ “Okay,” you answer, deciding that you’re far too exhausted to tackle any of your many glaring problems tonight. 

In the garage, he opens the passenger door for you, even going as far as to help you out of the car, and you wonder if this is a new quirk that comes along with being in a committed relationship with Javier Peña, or if he’s just being extra considerate because of your injury. 

You take the stairs slowly, stopping at the landing to catch your breath again, and Javi looks at you in concern. You can tell he’s just dying to say something, because for just a moment, a question flickers in his eyes. He holds himself back, though, turning to the door and busying himself with the key instead.

Good thing, too. Dr. Perez had warned you to take things pretty slow for a couple of weeks after your discharge - you no longer require around the clock monitoring, but your lungs aren’t completely healed yet, either. A little shortness of breath is to be expected for the moment, and you don’t need Javi fussing over you every time you take the stairs.

Javi swings the front door open just as you stand straight, breaths evened out for now. “Welcome home,” he says lowly. His tone is hesitant, almost cautious.

You blanch, your heart fluttering in his chest at the way he’d said ‘home.’ You swallow back the emotions that are swirling in you, reminding yourself that of course he’d say that. 

This is his home.

You take a few tentative steps in the doorway, looking around in curiosity. Javi’s not really a messy guy, by bachelor standards, but it looks like he’s cleaned the place from top to bottom. There are no whiskey tumblers scattered across the coffee table, no papers shuffled in haphazard piles. The ashtrays have been emptied. Even the bookshelf seems to have been straightened. 

You turn to see Javi watching you with a sharp, almost guarded expression.

“Wow,” you say, nodding your head in silent appreciation as you sweep your eyes over the gleaming living space. You wonder if this is the response Javi’s hoping to draw from you. “Cleans up nice, doesn’t it?”

Javi huffs a relieved little sigh, his lips twitching in a lopsided smile. “Come here,” he says, tugging gently at your hand. “I want you to see something.”

He leads you to his bedroom, and your pulse rushes unevenly in your ears. There are plenty of things that Javier Peña could be showing you in here, none of which you’d expected to be privileged enough to see tonight. 

You furrow your brow, glancing around the room. Javi’s made some changes in here, too. You’ve never seen his bed made before. Somehow, it looks so much bigger this way. Very inviting. 

But Javi isn’t guiding you to the bed. He’s paused in front of the dresser, a simple, dark stained walnut piece that you’ve never paid any attention to until now. 

You blink up at him. 

Javi raises his hand to the back of his head, suddenly self-conscious. In fact, he looks downright shy, fighting to meet your eyes, a flush creeping up his neck. “I know you lost everything, Ears,” he says softly, turning to face you as he leans against the dresser. “And I know that there’s nothing I could do to make up for that, and this is a pretty big liberty for me to take, but…” Javi opens the top left drawer, shifting to allow you to see inside. “I wanted to take some of that burden off of you, at least for a while.”

You peek into the open drawer, gasping at what you find. Javi’s bought you clothes. Your skirt and blouse are there, the ones you’d been wearing on the day of the bombing, washed and folded with exacting care. Beside them are a couple of pairs of jeans, another work skirt, a few solid colored tees and button downs, and one oversized, fluffy sweater, the kind you like to curl up in after a warm bath. 

Wordlessly, Javi opens the next drawer. It’s full of socks and black cotton underwear, exactly the kind you prefer, and even a couple of bras. Awestruck, you lift one up, turning it over in your hands. It’s black to match your underwear, and exactly your size, but the material is buttery soft, almost silky against your fingers, and you think it’s far, far more expensive than you’d have ever purchased for yourself. 

“Javi?” Is that your voice? Jesus, you sound like a mouse. You clear your throat and decide not to speak again until you can keep your voice steady

“There’s more,” Javi says, gathering your hands and guiding you into the bathroom. You follow him woodenly, overwhelmed far past the point of words.

The bathroom damn near sparkles. You notice a new towel folded neatly on the rack beside his. There are two toothbrushes nestled in the wooden canister near the sink. Javi opens another drawer at the far edge of the counter, and you have to hold back startled giggles as you notice the simple plastic hairbrush that lays inside. 

“I wasn’t sure what all you needed for this,” Javi’s voice is all warm affection as he slips his fingers through your tangled curls. “Figured I’d start with the basics and let you take over from there.”

Something about the gentle, indulgent expression on his face breaks loose the maelstrom of emotion that’s been roiling beneath the surface of your thoughts , and suddenly, you’re clinging to him, burying your face in his chest and swallowing back tears. 

Javi gathers you close, swaying your bodies gently as he strokes the back of your head. “Baby?” he whispers into the shell of your ear.

“It’s too much, Javi,” you mumble into his shirt. “Seriously. You didn’t have to.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes, pressing his lips to your temple. “I know that. I wanted to.”

“But-” You bite back a sob. Gratitude and shame are at war within you. Despite all of Javi’s government issued handguns and armored Broncos and his 2000 square foot apartment in the heart of Bogotá, you know that his DEA salary doesn’t amount to all that much. The idea of anybody, especially a man, especially _this man,_ spending their hard earned money on you is just abhorrent. 

Humiliating.

“Ears,” Javi’s voice is gentle as he draws back. He pins you with a solemn, probing expression. You sniff, regretting your wet eyes, knowing that he notices them. 

“I wanted to,” Javi repeats firmly. Overwhelmed, you find yourself staring at your shoes, away from the intensity that burns in Javi’s gaze. 

Javi cups your cheek with his palm. He doesn’t force you to face him, though, seems to be content with stroking his thumb at your jawline. “You’re not alone anymore, remember?” 

That one whispered sentence pierces straight through your armor. How can he know you so well? You’ve spent your entire adult life - and a lot of your teen years, too - taking care of yourself. It’s not really about the money, not at all.

It’s about vulnerability. Needing somebody. 

You recall the conversation you’d had earlier in the week, what you’d confessed to him. _‘It’s hard for me, letting anybody in.”_

You’d each promised to work on it together. 

You take a deep, shuddering breath, closing your eyes against the onslaught of fear and dread that leaves you trembling like a leaf in the wind. Javi’s not playing you. He’s not asking for anything in return. He’s not pitying you, minimizing you, patronizing you.

He just wants to help.

“Thank you,” you whisper, fighting the warble in your voice. You open your eyes just in time to see relief and something else, something sharper, deeper, flitting across his expression. 

“You’re welcome, baby,” Javi answers softly. One giant hand comes up to rest on your shoulder, squeezing reassurance. “There’s one more thing I want you to have,” he says as he pulls away. “When you’re ready.”

You take a deep, bracing breath. “I’m ready,” you say, wondering how true that really is. Your brain is already reeling, caught in an overwhelming onslaught of gratitude and warmth, humiliation and sorrow. 

Javi guides you to the living room, settling you down on the sofa. You toe off your battered chucks, curling your legs beneath you in anticipation. 

Javi is shuffling around in the kitchen. The familiar domesticity of the sound washes over you, and you breath a sigh of intense relief. 

This is normal. This, you can handle.

That’s when you notice the pack of cards on the coffee table. 

Your brain skitters to a stop, something fierce and sharp forcing its way up your chest. You reach for it. It’s still stiff and shining, encased in shrink-wrap from the store, unopened. It’s the same brand as your father’s playing cards, the ones that had been lost in the bombing. 

Grief wells thickly in your throat. You’d mentioned offhandedly to Javi that your cards had belonged to your dad, but you hadn’t given any him any details, and he hadn’t asked. 

Talking about him is hard, even after all this time.

Javi finds you like that, turning the brand new deck over and over in your hands, fighting back tears that are threatening to choke you.

“Oh,” he says softly, settling next to you on the sofa. He seems to read the gravity of the moment, because his tone is halting, careful as he speaks. “I know I can never replace what you lost-” he starts, and then you are throwing yourself into his chest, clinging to him as tightly as you possibly can.

“Thank you,” you choke, over and over again. These cards aren’t your dad’s, but Javi had noticed them, had picked up on just how important they were to you, and that acknowledgment, that kind regard, sets loose something long-buried in your heart. “Thank you, Javi. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he answers, seeming a little taken aback at your reaction. One hand comes to rest solid and warm on your back. “Of course, baby.”

You sit up after a long time, wiping at your eyes, grateful that this time, you’d managed to keep Javi’s chest relatively pristine. 

Lord, you’d sworn you’d never let him see you cry again, and here you are, shivering and sucking deep, gasping breaths, fighting back tears in his presence. 

But Javi’s looking down at you tenderly, like he sees right through you defenses and doesn’t judge you at all for what he finds there. “You’ll have to tell me about them one day, baby,” he prompts gently. 

You nod, knowing that he’s not asking about the cards. “Yeah.” You’re not ready yet, but you know that eventually, you will be. 

Javi wraps one long arm around your shoulder and squeezes gently. “You okay?” he asks, looking at you in concern.

“I’m okay,” you answer, smiling wetly.

Javi grins a little, fishing for something in his breast pocket, and you realize suddenly that the playing cards hadn’t been what he’d wanted you to see, after all.

Your minds spins at the implications. You’re not sure how much more doting you can handle today. 

Javi presents you with a tiny brass key on a simple ring. Your eyes widen. It’s the same spare key that Steve had given you after the bomb, the one that you’d placed carefully into the junk jar on Javi’s kitchen counter when you thought he hadn’t been looking. 

“I think it’s time for you to have this,” Javi says softly, catching you with a gaze that’s warm and encouraging as he offers the key to you.

You’re overwhelmed as full scope of what he’s suggesting slugs you hard in the chest. More emotions and thoughts than you can possibly fathom churn loudly in your head. “I can’t,” you gasp, leaning back a bit, as if the key would burn you if you touched it.

Javi’s brow furrows. “Why not?” If you didn’t know better, you’d think he seems almost indignant. Certainly, he’s perplexed.

“I…” You fumble for words, coming up bafflingly empty. What is it about this man that just pulls the good sense from you? “We just can’t, Javi.”

“I’ll take the sofa,” Javi suggests swiftly, cracking a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You shake your head hard, not wanting to revisit the memory of that awkward transition between friends to - your brain stumbles over the word _lovers,_ and you shy away, burying it deep in your subconscious - well, whatever you are now. “It’s not that,” you’re quick to reassure him. Sharing a bed with Javi is the least of your worries. 

“What is it, then?”

“It’s too soon!” the words burst from you. The thought of ‘lovers’ had thrown you, sent all of your fear and self-doubt rushing to the surface, and you can’t help feeling a little off-balanced and apprehensive considering what Javi is offering.

Javi’s brow furrows deeply, and he stares at you like he’s trying to see straight into your brain, like you’re a mystery that needs solving. You get the impression he’s thinking emphatically, ‘no, it’s not too soon.’

The mind boggles. 

“I just don’t want to mess this up,” you admit, your eyes flickering to the textured floor below your feet. You’re suddenly tempted to bury your toes in the soft carpet, despite the fact that they’re tucked beneath your legs.

“Baby,” Javi gathers you close, pulling you into a gentle embrace. “There’s no way on earth you could mess this up.”

You snort a little at that. “Don’t underestimate me, Peña. I’m a disaster waiting to happen.”

He huffs. “You’re not wrong.” You think he might be angling to draw a laugh from you, so you smile half-heartedly in response.

Javi pulls back, suddenly serious. “You know I’m in Medellín almost as much as I’m here.” He pins you with a look that’s almost regretful. “You’ll have the place to yourself a lot of the time.” You can tell he doesn’t like this one bit. 

“I know,” you answer sadly. He’s not exaggerating. As the search for Escobar intensifies, he and Murphy are spending more and more time at the Holguín School in Medellín, a bare-bones military base that leaves a lot to be desired in the way of basic comforts. Even though you’ve agreed to nothing, even with Javi sitting right here in front of you, you still manage to feel the gaping hole of his absence. “It’s just a lot all at once, I think.”

Javi nods, pursing his lips, and once again, you get the impression that things are stunningly straightforward in his mind. He’s humoring you, though, and you’re reeling beneath a bewildering mix of both appreciation and irritation at the realization. 

“How about this,” he says slowly, leaning in to rest his forehead against yours. “Let’s table this conversation for now.” Javi presses the key into your palm, bringing his opposite hand up to fold your fingers around it so that you can’t refuse. “You hold on to this for me, just until we figure things out.” Then, he brings your clasped hands to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles. “We’ll take it one day at a time and just see what happens, okay?” His gaze is sharp, probing, like he’s desperate to know what’s going on in your head.

You find yourself nodding, overwhelmed with gratitude for this man and his powers of observation. “I think I can live with that.” Your voice comes out as a choked whisper.

Phrased like that, you feel a lot less pressure. 

“Good.” Javi reaches back into his pocket, dangling a different key before you, a silver one. You recognize it as the spare key from your apartment, the one had exploded. Something in your throat catches at the fact that Javi’s kept it so close, even after everything that had happened between you.

“Besides,” Javi continues, obviously noticing your reaction. He doesn’t respond to it, though, instead pinning you with a somber expression. “I’ve had this for a while.” He re-pockets the key, shooting you a sly look as he does. “I think it’s time I returned the favor.”

You crack a grin. “I think that’s fair.”

Javi’s answering smile is as bright as the sun. “So,” he says, nodding to deck of cards that still sits in your lap. “Last time I was at your place, you mentioned a new game, something ridiculous.” He raises his brow, pretends to contemplate. “‘Double solitaire,’ I think you called it.”

You find your lips twitching at his antics. You’ve always loved the oxymoron of the game’s name. Having Javi pick up on it just sets something alight in your brain, and you find that the loss of your father’s cards aches a little less in the wake of his teasing. You’re eager to make some fresh memories with this new deck. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you for a demonstration for the past month,” Javi continues seriously, and you can tell by the wistful way he’s looking at you that he means what he’s saying, that he’d actually thought about playing cards with you during the time you’d spent apart.

The thought warms you. “Yeah?” You just barely manage to keep your tone level, poking your tongue between your teeth. Maybe staying with Javi won’t be so bad after all. “What stopped you?”

Javi shrugs, all easy nonchalance. “Oh, this and that. Work stuff, mostly.”

You shoot him a devilish grin, already ripping through the plastic wrap. “Well, working man,” you tease, struggling to keep control of the slick cards as you shuffle them through your fingers. New decks are such a bitch. “Get ready to have your ass handed to you.”

Javi’s answering grin is wolfish. “I think we both know how this ends, _mi reina,”_ he challenges as you deal the cards between you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Legit, real life Javier Peña held degrees in sociology and psychology, and I just fucking love the idea of him having a dusty collection of old psych textbooks rotting away on his bookshelf. 
> 
> Next up, Yours, a smutty one-shot coming sometime next week. Check out my tumblr for a sneak peek!

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out on tumblr @disgruntledspacedad


End file.
